


i still dream of you

by thebriars



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study?, M/M, drums-centric, just a forewarning lol, like it's probably shit, my love/hate relationship with this fic is a force to be reckoned with, what is comprehensive plot?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 11:30:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21207806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebriars/pseuds/thebriars
Summary: He fell in and out of consciousness as he fell in and out of favor, never quite sure whether he was dreaming or simply dead.~Edward chases a ghost.





	i still dream of you

**Author's Note:**

> well, this is essentially 15k words of brain vomit and weird, plotless character work. also, i ain't got time to puzzle out daisy goodwin's funky timeline, so i smushed together fact and dates of my own creation to create this mess. alf and drums are both a little younger here (especially drums lol, but that's expected), so if you feel like working out the math, just know that alf is a few years younger than he would have been irl.
> 
> this may be very bad, but i haven't posted drumfred in foreverrrrr and i just needed to get this off my desktop and out onto ao3, honestly. it still may very well be bad.

**JANUARY 1846**

Everything was a haze, clouded and gray and blurry. Snatches of sound and light seemed to break through the fog every once in a while, but for the most part, Edward swam in delirium, floating in the odd empty space between life and death. He felt little and yet everything, skin burning from a heat that arose deep within and screaming from the roughness of the sheets beneath him while his mind ached in matching agony from the lack of stable sensation. He dug his fingers into the stiff mattress upon which he lay and mumbled a prayer, though he could hardly move his lips to form coherent noises.

And yet, somewhere within this daze, somewhere between the numbness of the first moments there upon the cool cobblestones and the splitting, crippling pain in every inch of his being, the faces of the dead and those who were as good as gone appeared in his quiet hospital room.

First, Edward saw his mother, who had been lost to the earth below for many a year, and yet there she sat, clear as day, on the edge of his bed. She wore the dress she had been buried in, heavily hung from her waist and embroidered in delicate blue flowers. A thin gloved hand rested on the blankets, leaving no imprint about it, and Edward began to stretch his own out to meet hers. His fever-wracked mind seemed to clear for the briefest of moments and he froze, as Florence was curled halfway on the floor, eyes tinged soft pink, so dangerously close to touching them both.

His mother did not cry.

He swore he saw Albert and Her Majesty, arm in arm, standing sullenly in the doorway; the pale figure of the elusive Lord Melbourne leaning against the wall; Peel with his face buried in his hands. He saw his sister, who had gone to her grave months before, a black veil draped over her head and shoulders. She moved an ivory hand to push the lace away, and for a moment, Edward caught sight of something horrible beneath it.

He saw his father and a succession of politicians he hardly remembered the names of. The Queen’s ladies came one day, he thought, and someone who looked vaguely like Miss Coke stood quietly at the edge of their pack. Edward longed to ask the question itching under his skin, but his tongue was made of lead and the jabs of endless ache from his chest were entangled in his mind. He could not be sure of his own life, much less her presence, and the last thing Edward was going to do was give Alfred away.

_Alfred. _All he could think about was Alfred. Wide blue eyes and a smirk that gave way to a timid smile whenever Edward shifted an inch closer to him in the carriage. Strong shoulders and a halo of cigar smoke. A quickness in his step that matched the quickness of his mind. Lips so soft and earnest, hands so steady and firm. All he wanted was Alfred, and yet he did not come. His bedside was not graced with those piercing eyes, that soft smile…

Perhaps this was death, perhaps it was purgatory, perhaps it was even hell, but he knew with absolute certainty that it was not heaven. Edward was no angel, and he felt that with every lingering touch and glance and thought, the gate to the heaven his father preached had inched closed until the lock turned with finality at the sight of a kiss. Still, if it was Alfred that locked him out of paradise, he cared not a wit.

But it did seem purgatory. He was mourned for, cried for, and yet the selfish part of him was wholly unsatisfied. He had yet to lay eyes on the one man who he knew would bring him peace, and everything _hurt_.

He fell in and out of consciousness as he fell in and out of favor, never quite sure whether he was dreaming or simply dead.

**SEPTEMBER 1847**

London faded into dust, receding and dissipating until its shadow became nothing but smoke and muddled gray sky. Edward stood at the stern of the ship, railing biting into his palm. He gripped it as if it were an anchor, for the sheer rush of relief deep within his bones threatened to carry him off into the sky, and he could not risk floating away on joy when there was so much left for him to do.

He watched the horizon until the other passengers became wary of his unmoving stature, and then descended to below decks to join his luggage.

His berth was narrow and stuffy, a porthole high upon the wall offering splintered indigo light. He had never spent a night aboard a ship, for France was his only common destination and its shore was so close, but the windblown shores of that land was not where he was to set foot on earth again. The last he had heard of Alfred was that he had been in Palermo, in Sicily, probably delighting in the art and the warmth, and so it was there Edward was headed.

He had longed dreamed of this—running away to the continent with little but his clothes and favorite books tucked in a pair of satchels. He had never imagined it as a solitary journey, but he hoped it wouldn’t be solitary for long.

A few weeks after the funeral, he had dropped his position at his father’s bank, glad for once of Peel’s fall from power, for now he had the leniency to slip off into the night with his bags and a beloved letter tucked into his breast pocket.

Edward sighed and slipped into the narrow space between his bunk and the hull. He only hoped his instincts and the rumors were true, for if he got to Palermo and Alfred wasn’t there, he’d be lost, and that was a fate he could not stomach. He had a list of every hotel, every famous restaurant to check, every place that might pique Alfred’s interests (which was really the whole city, but Edward would search it all if he had to). He had a map of the island he had found in his father’s library, a book of Italian to prepare, and a vision of Alfred in the evening sun to drive him forward in his admittedly foolhardy plan; everything he needed, truly.

God, _Alfred_. Over the past year, the details of him had frayed a bit, and yet Edward still knew only that he loved him. But what of the exact shade of his eyes? What of the sly inflection of his voice when he quipped an innuendo? The press of his lips and the brush of his fingertips and a thousand other things… oh, how he missed him! He missed their quiet balcony talks and long carriage rides with knees brushing, too close for comfort and yet never near enough. He missed their lingering glances and soft, secretive smiles that spoke all the words they couldn’t say.

He sunk onto the stiff cot and took a steadying breath. Just thinking of his lover brought something giddy and hopeful rising into his throat. (They were still lovers, were they not? Could they be again?) The years they had shared as friends and the months between that kiss beside the loch and that day upon the steps of the House… it had meant something, something dearer and deeper than Edward had ever dreamt of holding. He raised a hand to his mouth and held his breath, hoping to calm the wave of adoration threatening to overflow him. And there, in the moment between inhale and exhale where everything was dangerously still, it fell upon him that his efforts were probably in vain. Alfred had not visited him while he was healing, had not come to the wedding, had not written since that thinly-disguised plea for forgiveness.

And then he asked around and found that the ever-charming Lord Alfred had eloped with Miss Coke the night after Edward was shot on the steps of the House, running off to the continent in the way Edward had once suggested naively in the daze of their first and only night together. He had been beyond crestfallen—destroyed, one could say—that he had left without a word. Perhaps he had been speaking the truth that night at Ciro’s. Perhaps Edward had truly just been nothing more than a rent-boy of sorts, exploited and cast aside. Perhaps he was just yet another fling, just another body in the night.

But Alfred would never.

Perhaps Alfred held a grudge against him for walking out and then never arriving to take the second chance he so generously offered, but that was not like Alfred. No, it was completely out of character.

So maybe his venture was simply a selfish search for answers. Maybe he was lonely and afraid and regretful and maybe he’d rather know the ugly truth than wonder forever. Still, though, he would spent eternity living out of his bags if it meant getting out of that blasted city. Without Alfred, the little joys of London had faded away, leaving nothing but grimy streets and rickety slums and rain. And then there was the aimless frivolity of Buckingham Palace. Once he had mostly recovered, the Queen had invited Florence and him to supper, and without Alfred’s cynicism and knowing smiles, the sheer decadence and waste of it all had made Edward’s stomach churn. He had excused himself to catch his breath on the balcony, except it still smelled faintly of cigar smoke and only worsened his despair. Florence claimed his sickness and they stole back to their home in Soho, Edward fighting back tears, for he could never explain his sadness to her.

She had comforted him gently, never asking for an explanation, never speaking a word.

And then the memory of her kindness brought that rush of grief back to him, for as much as he wanted to avoid their marriage, she was still a true friend, and she had borne his child, as little as the boy had lived.

Edward bit into the soft flesh of his hand, determined to stay silent. He would not cry now, not after he was free.

And oh, was he ever free! His father, under the impression that London was full of nothing but sorrow for Edward’s lost wife and son, was financing his trip away. He had played the part of a grief-stricken husband well, he thought, but then the shame of using the tragedy as his escape washed over him and he stamped the thoughts down with the practiced efficiency of a man who had spent his entire life doing just the same.

The gentle rock of the river was comforting, and he thought he might actually get some rest. Their home had been unbearable after Florence died. He couldn’t stand to sleep in their room, even after every remnant of that night had been scrubbed away. The parlor smelled of her perfume and he felt her eyes on the back of his head, as if she had finally realized that he did not love her.

He spent his nights at the family home in London for weeks until his father was fed up with his moping and Edward figured it was a good time to propose a few months abroad.

And so there he was, tucked away in a cramped berth, three days from Sicily.

**MARCH 1846**

By all standards, the wedding was beautiful — carnations in the windows and Florence in a stunning white gown, echoing the Queen’s choice and the subsequent fashion of the past few years. Edward had held his breath as he lifted her veil, for it was in that moment that his dream usually ended, but as the wedding carried on past the voiceless vows and the rings and the long walk back down the aisle, Edward became horribly aware that he was not asleep.

He saw the faces of those he had seen in his healing daze, looking joyful and satisfied in a way that only worsened the emptiness in his gut.

And Alfred was not there.

He was only lucky that Florence had her own misgivings about the wedding night, allowing them to merely share the bed without the connotations and giving Edward momentary cover for his nerves about the act itself and its implications.

He hardly slept that night, blinking back tears and trying to imagine the woman in the bed beside him was someone else entirely.

If he closed his eyes, though, he could nearly picture the night they spent together, even if he knew that dreaming of perfection would only sour his reality.

**SEPTEMBER 1847**

Edward slept in a blissful land of nothingness, as black as the emptiness seeping in through the porthole above him. He awoke but once in the dead of night in a cold sweat, trying to tame his heavy breathing so as not to disturb the permeating silence of the ship. He gripped the edge of the berth until his knuckles went white and the undetermined source of fear within him faded back into its cave.

He stayed there, halfway upright, staring into the blank room about him. If he focused for long enough, he could almost imagine it was a different room, a different night, a different world.

But thinking of such things was pointless now, as he was probably skating by the northern tip of France, far away from the Queen and the bank and the cool grey eyes of his father and his associates, numb to the unrest building about them.

He closed his eyes and lay back down.

**APRIL 1825**

At the sprightly age of seven, Edward was inclined to believe that the world consisted of his mother, his sister, and their house on the edge of the moors, and that he was the king of it all.

Josephine followed him blindly, toddling about the lawns while their mother watched with a distant satisfaction, knitting needles glinting silver in the sunlight, their clinking setting a neverending and rapid beat to the peace of day-to-day life.

Edward’s tutor had left for the day, leaving him blissfully unoccupied for a few hours and giving him the perfect opportunity to explore the grove at the base of the hill. It was a mysterious place, at least for a seven-year-old (even a bright one), and he had been longing to travel there unaccompanied since he had proudly read aloud an excerpt of a tale of Robin Hood to his mother. He had spent the last week traipsing about the grounds with a sheath of toy arrows he had recovered from the attic, strutting between the house and the stables and the garden with a ghostly band of merry men. And now, with his mother’s disinterest and his tutor’s absence, he was free to wander closer and closer to the edge of the lawn, eventually sitting cautiously on the beginning of the steep drop down. With a final backwards glance, he pushed off and went skidding.

He tumbled down the grassy slope, fingers catching on passing thistles and sprays of crumbling dirt muddying the cuffs of his shirt. Josephine called something from the top, twisting her hands anxiously in the edge of her frock. Edward did not stop to listen and brushed himself off at the tree line, glancing up at his sister and the rose-colored blob by the house that he figured to be his mother. Josephine was concerned with childish anxieties and his mother was not concerned at all, so Edward slipped between the low hanging branches into a shadowy world quite separate from his own.

He ducked through the edge of the wood into a small inner clearing where the branches converged overhead and only fractured pieces of sunlight came through.

“Stutely?” he whispered, feeling far less brave than before.

No smiling friend of Robin Hood’s appeared from the darkness, and Edward suddenly felt a thousand eyes fall upon him.

Swallowing back an unbidden rush of tension, he dropped to his knees to peer beneath a particularly wide and sweeping bough, unsure of what he was looking for. He found nothing but a slight dip in the earth where a rabbit or other creature might burrow, so he rose back to his feet and gazed about at the tight circle of alder trees and the hedgerow crowded beneath. There was no grass growing there, only tiny weak saplings sprouting from damp soil. Edward longed to cast off his shoes and bury his toes in the soft and sinking land there, feeling it give way beneath his feet like a sponge cake, and yet a creeping feeling of unease was spreading from his chest to his fingertips.

He turned back to the way he came, only to find his path overtaken by the bramble, and the unease exploded into fear.

Something told him he was not alone in the grove.

Edward practically launched himself at the wall of greenery, tearing darts of red into his palms where stray thorns snagged his frantic movements. He felt eyes begin to bore through his shirt and into his skin and through his back straight to his heart, as if they saw something there that should not exist, a cancer to be torn away.

Finally, he broke through and fell between the tree trunks into swaying stalks of grass, gasping for breath and certain that he would be covered in scorching pores where the eyes had followed him.

Edward panted, and as the terror gripping him in its vice gave way, bit by bit, his own ridiculousness washed over him, for he _knew_ he had not been burned with the eyes of the trees and the scraggly bushes there. It was preposterous.

And yet now he knew that there was something strange about him, for the grove had known it and found it for him.

A worried cry and soft hands under his arms and he was in the embrace of his mother, who was now sat amongst the flickering sea of cordgrass, rubbing comforting circles into his back and erasing every last illusion of mutilation there.

She held him close, whispering soft words of reassurance, and though Edward had shed his last tear, something tight now lived within him, the something that should not exist, the something the eyes had found.

**SEPTEMBER 1847**

Edward lay awake for several dragging hours, restless and itching for something he could not quite identify. Eventually, some distant call echoing in his chest drew him to the deck, and he stood in the darkness and cold until his fingers grew blisteringly numb and he could not feel his cheeks. He watched the white wake trailing behind the ship with vague longing, wondering what it would feel like to fall from the mast to the churning waves below.

He remained still and silent, as much a part of the ship as the hull or the bridge, until the horizon became tinted with lavender and gold and Edward could not feel even his heart.

**SEPTEMBER 1843**

France seemed a glimmering fantasy land straight from a fairytale, and Edward could not tell if he quite liked the gilded façade Louis Philippe had carefully constructed about the chateau. The many sweet pleasures the king presented turned sour in the back of his throat when Edward remembered the stories of Paris’s poor and the prints that had littered the papers when he was a boy. Emaciated peasants cloaked in tattered rags, students drenched in red…

He courted the illusion as best he could, unrest curling in his stomach, and yet he thanked the hazy nature of the chateau for providing a cover for his interests. Edward watched Lord Alfred romance the room with an ease he could only dream of employing. It was the ease of someone who had no investment in their actions, of someone who did not care for the consequences. Edward leaned against the wall and dabbled in a cheroot of his own, having never liked the taste of smoke but suddenly craving the feeling of something hot in his throat and lungs, something to make him stop breathing for a moment.

**SEPTEMBER 1847**

Morning came quite suddenly and Edward went back down to his berth and sat on the edge of the cot, staring blankly and wondering just what he presumed to be doing.

**FEBRUARY 1844**

Winter still lay heavy over London, blanketing the rooftops in snow and coloring the parks in a sheen of white. Edward hurried from the House to the palace, a file tucked under his arm and his head ducked into the wind. He wanted nothing but warmth, nothing but the comfort of an embrace. The longing grew more intense than it ever had before and lodged in his throat as an unshed sob, or a silent scream. He felt as though he were thrashing against chains, straining to reach the slivers of light that peeked through the bars of his prison.

He reached the steps of the palace and glanced up briefly, freezing in his tracks when he saw Lord Alfred standing above on a balcony. Whether it was smoke or frozen breath that hung around him was unclear, but the way the sharp summer sun splintered through the clouds and caught in the fog about him made Alfred’s golden hair glow, as if he were crowned by a halo.

Edward gulped and forced a smile, hoping the expression of longing he felt growing on his face did not pass around the brim of his hat and betray him. Lord Alfred raised his fingers to his lips, though Edward could not tell whether it was a cigar he held or something less material.

**SEPTEMBER 1843**

“Shall we?” Lord Alfred said, a boyish grin spreading over his lips.

“I don’t see why not,” Edward breathed, and within an instant, both were disrobing and there was more glorious rosy skin revealed to him than there had been in Edward’s wildest dreams, and their waistcoats were tossed haphazardly into the shrubbery, and they were sprinting like children to the edge of the lake and the water, cold as it was, did little to keep the warmth from spreading from Edward’s heart to the tips of his toes. Alfred yanked him under the water, and they spluttered and circled each other in some crude, primordial dance.

Edward imagined they were waltzing through the Queen’s ballroom, his hand steady on Alfred’s waist, those blue eyes fluttered closed as they spun, chests nearly pressed together. Edward felt as though he were holding a precious jewel or an ancient book, something fragile and valuable and full of a secret history he could never understand. He wondered who had kissed Alfred first, if anyone at all, and who had touched his cheek and brushed their fingers through his hair in the way Edward longed to.

Oh, how he _longed_.

**SEPTEMBER 1847**

Edward did not eat, though he knew he should have, but he did take out the copy of _The Iliad_ in which he had drawn Alfred’s face in the margins and traced the papery outline of his jaw and his cheek.

He bit back an unbidden sob and dug his nails into his palms and hoped that he was right, and that he had indeed set sail towards the man he loved.

**JUNE 1841 **

Being rather new to the mysterious realm of London’s high-class activities, Edward felt entirely out of place. He stood at the edge of the dance floor and followed Sir Robert, who he had just been hired by, feeling rather like a lost duckling. He missed his job as a clerk at his father’s bank, where he had not been obligated to attend much besides the occasional family dinner or soiree.

However, there were many things to distract himself with. There was fine champagne, which bubbled in his veins and made the back of his head feel fuzzy, and beautiful women in sweeping dresses, and equally beautiful men.

And one _astonishingly_ beautiful man.

Edward watched him move like mercury through the crowd of dancers, switching partners effortlessly and looking simultaneously invested and distant. He was the perfect courtier, a finely-painted mask of interest fooling the others into thinking he was on their side. But Edward could see, in the moments between dances when he hesitated, or in the swells of music where his step faltered and his eyes shut briefly, that he was an actor.

A good one, at that.

His golden hair was easy to follow, and Edward sipped champagne and watched him guide the room in a sort of peaceful direction, a middle man in the eternal battle between political parties and longstanding rivals and snubbed ladies.

“Who is that, with the blue waistcoat? I do not recognize him,” he asked a young woman with fine yellow hair who watched the man, too.

She blinked. “Lord Alfred Paget, sir. He is everyone’s friend.”

**SEPTEMBER 1847**

The rest of his journey had passed in a haze ¾ Edward spent his days wandering between his berth and the bow of the ship, feeling aimless and dreamlike. Perhaps he was truly a ghost now, even if he hadn’t been before, for the rest of the passengers looked straight through him. Edward remembered the days of wonder at the beginning of his job for Peel, when he had stared around the palace in awe and had danced with giddiness flooding his chest, bathed in golden light and drunkenness. It was there he had fallen in love with Alfred, truly, in the late nights and the melancholy stillness after all the guests had gone home.

He had fallen in love there, eyes flicking to the slim cut of Alfred’s coat, and he had fallen in love in the palace corridors, smoke stains in the balcony overhang and on Alfred’s lips. He had fallen in love during long carriage rides and in the short moments of peace in hidden parlors, brandy in hand.

Edward stood at the dock, cases in hand, the waves lapping against the rocky shore of Palermo. The ship loomed, empty, behind him, and Edward felt as though there was only one direction to go.

He steeled himself—though for what he did not know—and strode up to the city.

**AUGUST 1845**

Something clicked in Scotland, and Edward could not restrain himself any longer.

Kissing Alfred was something indescribable.

He kissed him again.

**SEPTEMBER 1847**

Edward found lodging in a small hotel by the cathedral which smelled of salt and had ferns in every bedroom. The paint was a light blue, though it was so cracked in most places that its calming affect was lost on Edward. He had been welcomed by a young woman with olive skin and dark hair pleated over her shoulder, who watched him with a curious sort of sadness, as if she pitied him.

Edward _hated _pity.

He sat in the chair by the window and mulled over the map he had marked with splotches of ink and scribbled ideas in the margins of, chewing on his lip until it sprung with droplets of red. He had been hoping for some feeling that would tell him whether he had arrived in the correct location, some sensation of proximity or a sign that he was on the right path.

It was as if he was chasing a ghost, some ethereal imprint of a man he thought he knew, a man he thought he loved. His fingers slipped through Alfred’s misty figure, and he wondered whether he should stay as a ghost himself. Perhaps he was just dreaming.

**JANUARY 1846**

The cobblestones were cold beneath his back, and they pressed like unfriendly hands. Something hot and sweet bubbled in his throat and he realized distantly that it was blood, that he was bleeding, that _surely_ he should be feeling pain, but there was none. A phantom numbness in his shoulder, yes, but no pain.

Edward looked up into the cloudy sky and wondered whether he would see Alfred again.

**NOVEMBER 1847**

Palermo, for all its charm, was tiring. The language was fast and impossible for Edward, even with his Latin background and the hasty research he had conducted in London, to understand. Edward had quickly established a routine—waking with the sunrise and waiting for the motivation to continue on his mission, eating breakfast with the young woman (who was named Carlotta and had taken a liking to him, offering in her splintered English to share the breads and cheeses she brought from the market every morning) and scouring every place he could for any sign, any sliver of hope that Alfred was out there somewhere.

Edward wandered through museums and galleries and cafés and hotels and taverns and clubs and parlors and docks and parks and riversides. He showed sketches of Alfred to anyone who looked sympathetic, and every time it was _no_. It was glazed over expressions and small frowns and shaking heads and Edward felt as though he could hardly move. He felt as though he had died all over again, that he had doomed himself or _damned_ himself, that he was somehow being punished for leaving London and the twin graves in the churchyard behind. It culminated in a festering feeling of hopelessness, of bleakness and emptiness and of something gnawing and cruel, something that sawed at his mind with a blunt blade, tearing and ripping but never cutting and reminding him of the pinprick sear of the needle from when he had his stitches redone…

Until one day it didn’t.

Edward was doing something rather uncharacteristic and drinking during the day. Carlotta, though they had never really talked, had begun to sense that he was teetering on the edge of a chasm from which few returned, and had shoved a covered basket into his chest. He had blindly followed her pointed finger down a narrow, twisting alley to a sandy slope that faded into the ocean. The docks curved around the shore in the distance and the cove was warm and untouched, something clearly treasured by the locals and hidden from visitors at all costs. Edward felt something akin to pride spark in his chest, knowing somehow that he was being allowed to rest his eyes upon a treasure kept under wraps.

He settled in the white sand, not bothering to lay out the checkered sheet folded atop the basket, and peered through its contents. Bread and cheese wrapped in linen, scaccia in clean paper envelopes, and a bottle of wine. Edward had smiled at this, at Carlotta’s blunt kindness and the beauty of the shore and the way that the gulls circled overhead.

Sipping wine and breaking off pieces of bread to toss to wandering gulls, Edward felt a strange sense of peace settle over him. Sun shattered off the clear water before him, the cliffs rose protectively around him, and the cloud-spotted sky seemed to float higher and higher until he felt as though he stood in a great airy cathedral, worshipping something simpler than God.

With the warmth tracing darkening patterns over his skin, Edward began to wonder whether his hopelessness was deserved. It had only been a month, and Alfred could be _anywhere_. Perhaps not Palermo, but since Palermo could be so beautiful, there was certainly more undiscovered treasures scattered throughout the continent. Or maybe Alfred had gone to Budapest or Istanbul or Cairo or Moscow. He could be anywhere, and Edward would go anywhere for even the smallest chance of finding him, of seeing him again, for gleaning the tiniest of answers from him.

After all, he had nothing to lose.

**MAY 1834**

Edward was young and, as young men so often are, sure of himself. He walked with the slight swagger of a boy who tries to imitate the idea of a man, his hair ever so casually falling loosely over his forehead from its sculpted curls. He watched pretty girls from the village walk along the banks of the river, where the other boys rowed with streamline movements and eyes that flickered between the water and the swishing skirts that moved along the walk. He peered at them both over the tops of his books, brooding under the shade of a great willow tree just downstream from his dormitory.

One particularly well-groomed girl, who was named Juliet, was sitting alone on a stone bench with a book of her own. The rowing boys all looked up the bank to her, their eyes gleaming with the reflection of her pale blue dress and dark curls. She spared them no glances of her own, instead staring into the pages of her novel, cap bowed to the breeze coming from the Thames.

Every so often, Edward would chance a longer look than the others dared, when he was sure she was distracted by the ink beneath her fingertips or the children frolicking by a small grove of trees across the river. She was indeed beautiful, with a gentle, curving nose and a sharp intellect in her eyes. Edward smiled to himself and returned to his studies, the wind further disrupting the appearance he worked so hard to maintain.

The next time he looked up, Juliet was looking back.

Her lips twitched as he blinked, slightly shocked, and he ducked his head as quickly as he could.

But the next time he took a moment to watch the traffic on the river pass by, she was looking again. And the next time. And the next.

With every shared look, confidence swelled in Edward’s chest, and around the tenth time their eyes lingered on the other’s, he pushed himself to his feet and walked towards her, trying to appear self-assured and calm (his heart was pounding, his stomach was knotting).

Juliet saw what he was doing and looked back at her book. Edward swallowed and offered a smile.

“Excuse me, Miss, but might I inquire as to what you are reading?”

“What, are you interested in young ladies’ novels?” she asked, her voice as clear as the diamonds clinging to her ears.

“I’m interested in anything with words.”

This must have been the right response, for she gestured that he should sit, and Edward did, trying to keep his leg from bouncing anxiously. He pushed a stray curl from his eyes and took the volume Juliet offered, ghosting his fingers over the embossed font.

Edward raised a brow. “_Dubrovsky_? This is no ‘young ladies’ novel’.”

“No,” Juliet laughed, looking rather pleased with herself. “I bribed my cousin into getting it for me.”

Edward shook his head in amused disbelief. He could feel jealous eyes pass over their bench from the passing shells, and a small flare of triumph burned in his chest. Juliet took the book back and ruffled the corners of the pages before it fell open on the ribbon marking her place.

“I’ve heard it is quite interesting,” Edward said.

“Oh, it is beyond so! You must read it sometime.”

“Perhaps I could borrow your copy? Once you have perused it sufficiently, of course.”

Juliet gave him a look that seemed to quantify his every trait, and Edward had the feeling that he was being sized up, and became quite nervous.

“Yes, you may.” Edward let out the smallest of sighs, and Juliet scrunched up her nose at him. “Do you come here often?” she asked, a clear invitation.

“Nearly every Saturday.”

“Excellent.”

**NOVEMBER 1847**

Edward caught a ferry to Italy and, from there, used what little remained of his funds to buy passage to Rome. He was ever thankful for Carlotta, who had not charged him for his room nor the food they shared, citing his company as enough. But still, his money would not last forever, and Edward quietly counted the scraps of coins he carried at night, sleeping in the cheapest rooms at the cheapest inns.

He needed to get to a job, preferably something involving English.

Of course, that would be _impossible_ to find in Italy.

Edward remembered the adventures of Robin Hood and thought about buying his way across the continent, catching rides on carts and sleeping in the hay and working odd jobs… but he could not.

He had to work quickly, keep his morale up, and though the adventure seemed tantalizing, he had a hunch that its zeal would only last him so long.

Rome came and went, and there Edward caught work sorting some files for an old man and his trading business, who had been desperate to find someone who understood the English records. Edward left the city with a heavy pocket and a residual sense of history, having now brushed fingertips with many of his idols from his school days.

He caught a ride with a young man and his cart, who was headed to the northern regions to deliver his brothers from a monastery, and then to Geneva, where he lingered amongst the peace and quiet before working his way along the rivers and country roads to Paris, remembering Alfred’s fondness for the city. He flushed at the thought as he pretended to doze in his berth.

**DECEMBER 1834**

Juliet had asked Edward to be her first dance at her family’s Christmas party. He took the chance gladly and, finely printed invitation tucked into his breast pocket, waited anxiously for Juliet to approach him at the edge of the dance floor.

She was beautiful, hair pinned in tight curls to either side of her head, sleeves voluminous and jewels draped heavy across her bosom. Edward rather missed her simpler dresses and loose hair, but did not comment on it besides a whispered compliment. Juliet smiled—genuinely, for once—and let him sweep her out onto the dance floor.

Eyes followed them as they spun, and Edward felt giddy from the inside out.

**DECEMBER 1847**

Paris seemed both a city of masks and a city of unbearable truths. There were patches that seemed to bear the scars of the revolution and the various rebellions since, and though the locals seemed to bow their heads as they passed those hallowed cobblestones, no one spoke a word. The city seemed alive, shifting between watchful courtier and revolutionary and quiet peasant.

Edward, who knew enough French to land small jobs here and there, found himself wandering through the richer neighborhoods in his finest clothes, observing the actors in their everlasting play, and feeling rather sick for doing so. He had been blessed with hearing Alfred speak frankly on the matter, on his hatred of dissembling and his occasional disgust with the court. He knew they saw him watching them with curiosity, nouveau riche and still uneducated in the ways of the children of inheritances and family titles, and he felt their eyes like darts on his back, vague disdain coloring his brief and awkward interactions with them.

He did not spend long amongst the wealthy.

Edward had caught a job helping unload a cart of wine barrels, and as he worked in the afternoon sun, he felt the burn of labor and wondered just why he hadn’t tried anything similar before. It hardly seemed beneath him to work callouses into his palms.

He gritted his teeth and hauled the barrels faster.

**OCTOBER 1835**

“A husband?”

Juliet frowned. “Why, yes, what else?”

“You are to be _married_?” Edward felt oddly unsteady on his feet and found himself reaching for the railing of staircase upon which Juliet had accosted him after the annual party at the fine Robinson estate. The last remaining stragglers loitered below them in the grand hall and Edward could feel their eyes straying to this odd interaction between two youngsters.

Juliet chuckled, somewhat sadly. “There was little else to be done. Our funds are low, and his are not. I am to be married in the spring.”

“I—I just—,” he stammered.

“Edward, dearest Edward, you did not expect it to be you, did you? If so, I am sorry, truly, but I did not intend to…”

Something in Edward’s face made her voice trail off into nothingness, and Juliet glanced at the floor. “I will miss you.”

“And I you.”

**DECEMBER 1847**

“Edward? Edward Drummond, is that you?”

He nearly dropped the barrel at the sound of her voice, but instead spun rather frantically to meet her eyes. Juliet, coat drawn tightly around her small frame, was watching him intently, eyes wide and somehow narrowed, as customary with those of great wit and suspicion.

“Juliet?” he said.

“I knew it was you,” she breathed, and Edward was really dropping the barrel this time, and they met in the embrace of friends who were unafraid of a stranger’s perception.

They separated, and Juliet brushed snowflakes from Edward’s shoulders. “What in the _world_ are you doing? Hauling barrels, in _France_?”

“It is really quite a story.”

“Well, tell it to me.”

**AUGUST 1845**

Alfred was more beautiful than ever before, stretched beneath him like a Greek god, cheeks and chest flushed a dark rose and his fingers buried in Edward’s hair.

He kissed him there and there and there and there until his lips were acquainted with every inch of Alfred’s skin. He touched with hesitant veneration, still not sure how much he was allowed to take. Alfred seemed to sense this and brought his fingertips down from his hair along the line of his jaw to rest on his mouth, his thumb brushing gently across the lip of Edward’s bottom lip and pulling it down ever so slightly.

“I am _yours_,” he whispered, and the night seemed to grow warmer.

**JANUARY 1848**

Juliet, after pushing Edward firmly into a chair by the fire, brought them brandy.

“You have done more than I thought you would, Edward,” she had said, swirling her drink artfully and sitting carefully opposite him.

He laughed. “You used to say I would become prime minister, which I clearly have not done.”

Juliet looked at him in disbelief. “You were his secretary! That’s quite a feat.”

He shrugged and took a long sip of his brandy. “Yes, but I was _shot_ and now I am working as a laborer-for-hire in the slums of Paris.”

Juliet shook her head and sat. “Goodness, you really must love him.” There was a wistfulness in her voice that was permeating and lingering. Edward shifted uncomfortably and, having noticed this, Juliet straightened up and jabbed her finger in Edward’s direction. “And that is what I meant. Love is an accomplishment, Edward, especially for people like us.”

“Whatever do you mean by that?”

“I did not read of Sappho for nothing, you know.”

“Juliet, darling, I do not understand.”

“Oh, Edward,” she sighed with an air of fond exasperation. “I love _women_. My friend Katherine? Who so always disliked you? Perhaps you can imagine why.”

Edward, who had choked on his brandy, watched her with astonishment. “You were a… a pair?”

“Yes, in love,” she said, and the wistfulness returned. “Deeply, or as deeply as two youngsters can be.”

“You’re—what, twenty-eight? You are hardly older now.”

“But surely you know what I mean!” Juliet exclaimed with great conviction. “Whatever you felt for men—or women—as a boy has been easily surpassed by what you feel for _him_.”

Edward bit his lip and blinked back sudden tears. The way she spoke of Katherine (who had indeed been cold to him) reminded him so deeply of what he felt for Alfred, or what he might if he did not find him. It was clear that whatever had transpired between Juliet and Katherine back in Eton had long since dissipated, and yet Juliet seemed still very much in love. Or perhaps she was in love with the idea of being a lover, of the shared secrets and the days spent pining and the nights spent dreaming until dreams became reality.

It was like a slap to the face.

Juliet saw this and sighed. “Let us speak of other matters.”

“No, no, if we do not speak now, we never shall again.”

“What, do you plan to leave?”

“No, but habits are hard to break. It’s been a secret for so long that I… it is difficult, to speak of him.”

Juliet, whose eyes shone dark and mournful in the lamplight, smiled sadly. “I understand. Are you asking for my advice?”

“I suppose?”

She stood and strode to him, crouching to look him in the eye. Juliet had always been a woman of directness and honesty, but never had it been so clear to him. Never before had she looked this raw, and it was startling. So rarely did Edward see true emotions, for even though he and Florence were great friends, she had always been cautious and he reserved. Juliet reminded him faintly of Alfred, who also carried the great burden of wisdom and ancient sorrow.

“Find him. Do what you must, for you will wither away if you stop. Learn the truth, even if it hurts, yes?” She smiled at him, a little sadly. “You _love _him; I know it.”

He let out a shuddering breath. “I do. God, Juliet, I love him. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s like—it’s like he’s this integral part of me, and when I am separated from him, I can’t do anything but think of him. And it’s been nearly two years, and he has not written, and I have been to hell and back to find him.”

Juliet reached up to push a curl back from his face and nodded.

“Stay here and gather your thoughts and funds, and go from there.”

**JANUARY 1846**

He knew now that he was awake, but though his heart was beating steadily, Edward could not tell whether he was alive.

He sat on the edge of his bed, not sure if he was strong enough to walk yet, and dug his fingers into the sheets. His shoulder was throbbing and he was alone, the room dark and the silence that came from darkness was suffocating. He reached up to pull anxiously at his collar but found only the edge of his bandages, and instead of picking at their edges and earning himself harsh looks from the nurses, he pressed his fingertips into the ridge of his collarbone until it stung.

The pain was anchoring and Edward felt a sharp release in his chest, a breath he hadn’t known he was holding escaping from his lips.

**FEBRUARY 1848**

Two years had now passed since he had last seen Alfred’s face, and Edward wondered how long it would be until he saw him again.

_If ever_, the snide voice in his head whispered. Edward blinked furiously to tamp it down. He couldn’t afford to think that way, not now that Paris was behind him.

The train seemed to rattle in time to his heartbeat, growing steadily with every passing mile until it raced through the picturesque countryside, echoing the way Edward’s mind was racing through memories. The old mixed with the new as he danced between fleeting moments of the past and the lingering days of the present—Juliet’s candlelit home in Paris faded into the shadowy gold of Ciro’s and the peaceful English moors grew into the swelling hills of France while Edward drifted in and out of sleep. Though Juliet’s home had been nothing but comfort and calm, he still felt exhausted to the core, as if he had yet to shake the cold of the Parisian winter from his bones.

The train was comfortably warm, though, and he shared it with a few other passengers—an elderly gentleman whose nose was buried in a newspaper and whose hat nearly brushed the ceiling; a young woman and her chaperone, nervously clutching hands at every jostle. The thrill of riding on such a new and dangerous piece of equipment had faded somewhat as the journey continued, but Edward was most certainly glad that he had heeded Juliet’s urges that he _must_ experience it, for the slight draft that came into the compartment did add a sort of exhilaration to the journey. Meanwhile, Edward busied himself with his thoughts and the rhythmic sway of the carriage, the soft patter of rain against the windowpane lulling him into a quiet state of peace.

Juliet had offered him everything he could have asked for, and he was tempted to remain in her company for the rest of eternity. They shared drinks and laughs nightly and she took him to the theatre with a party of her friends. She reminisced her dead husband’s life with the melancholy fondness of a wound long since bandaged and set to heal, and Edward wondered if he would ever reach such a state of acceptance. For now he remembered two sets of sad blue eyes and began to doubt if he had ever been good enough for either.

**JUNE 1846**

Florence was waiting for him when he returned from his father’s offices, hands clutched nervously before her. They twisted and twined around each other, and she bit nervously at her bottom lip. Edward blinked in surprise at her appearance, hanging up his coat slowly, as if he would startle her away with any movement. The house was darkened, as he had been coerced to stay late again (though not much coercing was really needed, as he had sensed that he might return to something like _this_ any day now), and Florence wore a dressing gown tightly wrapped around her shoulders.

“Edward,” she said, a forced strength permeating through her voice and making her seem even more like a statue.

“Yes?” he answered, hanging his hat on its hook. He wondered whatever had happened to the servants.

The house seemed to whisper taunts around them, the silence giving leeway for imagined words of mockery. Florence did not seem to notice, and trailed her fingers up to the folded collar of her silken robe, and Edward swallowed hard against the wave of unnatural revulsion. And it wasn’t that Florence was dissatisfying or unappealing or possessed any other fault that might excuse his complete and utter disinterest—rather, abhorrence—but that entrancing himself with her many charms was nothing but betrayal. Nothing but sin.

As the robe dropped heedlessly to the floor, Edward found himself sinking into a dark and bottomless pit of despair, for he _must_. He could not deny her. He must choose between two evils, both of which made him as cruel as the bullet that had once torn through his flesh, just above where his heart was beginning to pound with unsung fear.

He stood shock still and he could nearly swear that a familiar voice joined the hisses of the great and empty house, creeping through him with cold and clammy footsteps.

**FEBRUARY 1848**

Edward descended from the train car behind the two ladies, who seemed exceedingly relieved to have finally exited the contraption. He could hardly blame them, as the last stretch of track had been significantly less polished than the first and he left his seat feeling rather green himself. He carried his satchel—now filled with new books Juliet had pressed upon him and a package of still-fresh madeleines from a bakery a few blocks from Juliet’s home—and ducked his nose into the wind as he followed the ladies and the old man down along the empty platform. It was a gray day, and all sense of warmth the hot coals of the engine had imparted over the train was lost to the biting air and the low-hanging clouds. He was in Belgium, now, he knew, not too far from Prussia, should he wish to venture further east.

But something told him he was near, though the rationalist within him scoffed at this fresh wave of naïve hope. It had yet to be true, after all.

Then again, Palermo had not been a complete loss—Carlotta had been kind and the cove had been beautiful, and Paris was certainly a success of sorts. He had missed Juliet most dearly, and he knew only too well of the discomfort of a large and empty house where the dead had once walked.

She was a woman of tragedy, not unlike him.

He wondered if she sat in her parlor with a book or wandered the streets or slept or entertained a young woman of society with eyes like mahogany and skin like a rose petal.

Edward took a carriage with the old man into town, trying to ignore the memories that flooded him when his eyes strayed to the empty seat beside him.

He leaned his head against his hand and drifted off again, lulled by the familiar beat of horse hooves.

**JANUARY 1847**

Florence came in from her dressing room but a minute after Edward had propped himself up onto the pillows, pushing back the collar of his nightshirt to inspect the scar.

A year had passed already, and yet the wound still stung as if it were new.

_A year_.

The bed dipped as Florence sat cautiously on the edge, smoothing her long braid over her shoulder and catching her finger in the loop of the ribbon at the end.

“I can hardly believe how long it’s been,” she said. Edward nodded, unsure if he could form any words that would not give him away, for all he could think of was _him_.

He had begun to tamp it all down again, the memories of splendor lost in the daily monotony of domestic life, but now that so much time had passed—and yet so little—he could not help but lose himself in melancholy again.

“And,” Florence continued, her voice growing from a tremor to an earthquake with frightening speed, “I have some rather happy news to brighten the occasion. I only hope that the somber tides these next few days will bring will not dampen the revelation.”

“I do not think it will,” Edward managed. God, Florence was too good for him. She was too perfect, too kind, too prim and beautiful and wise. She was every man’s dream and Edward did not deserve her. He would not let his own sorrows trouble her again.

“The doctor came today, while you were at the bank.”

Edward gulped. “And?”

Florence turned quite suddenly and flung her hand out to rest atop Edward’s own, and her slim fingers guided it to her stomach, her eyes full of meaning.

_Oh_.

**FEBRUARY 1848**

Edward found a spare room in a little inn over the local watering hole, having been jolted from his swirling dreams of a woman in a heavy black veil that did little to mask her long yellow braid or muffle the sound of her hiccupped sobs by a less-than seamless arrival in the village. Its narrow and picturesque streets could not distract him from the echoes of Florence’s cries—her tears at his bedside in the hospital and her screams that night and the tinny wail of a child and—

He shook himself and swallowed hard against the pit in his gut.

The room was small but offered more comfort than Edward could have asked for, with a small but comfortable bed and a pitcher of clean water to wash the dust of travel from his face. An old mirror, distorted with age and splotched with black rust, hung over the basin, and as Edward set his luggage down at the foot of the bed, he caught a glimpse of himself in its deformed glass.

He looked just the same as always, if not a little reddened from the cold, and his hair was a bit too long to be considered fashionable, but certainly not worse for the wear. Edward blinked at himself for a moment, and then—

—a flash of gold in the background, and he jumped.

_Her_.

Could it be? Had she followed him all this time? Edward was overcome with a creeping sense of dread and discomfort, as if he was being watched by unseen eyes, and as he watched the room through the mirror, blood pounding in his ears like the crash of ocean waves, he _swore_ he heard the faint cries of a child, weak and breathless, soon to disappear forever.

He felt sick.

Edward sank to the floor, hand still wet and still white-knuckled on the edge of the wardrobe, and he felt as though he had been shot again.

Of course he hadn’t been followed by the ghost of Florence. There was no such thing; there was no rhyme or reason to the thoughts that ran frantically through his mind. Edward took steady breaths and focused on the flickering light of the oil lamp, timing each inhale and exhale to its fickle dance until his heartbeat dipped back down and he slumped, suddenly exhausted, against the drawers.

_God_, he needed a drink.

**MAY 1842**

“O, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering?”

Edward blinked out from his reverie, having fallen into his familiar daydreams, entranced by the fine paintings that hung throughout the palace. He had never seen such fine art on such a scale before and found himself straying from the conversations he was meant to be taking notes on to study the brushwork and the delicate fade between colors.

But now he was jerked away and turned to a different sort of masterpiece, one that lived and breathed and stood but an arm’s reach away, fiddling with the helmet of the ridiculous costumes they’d dreamt up.

“Why aren’t you in there delighting the damsels?” Alfred asked, his smile wry and knowing. Edward felt his heart stutter under the heat of the look Alfred gave him, his mind struggling to rejoin itself after having been scattered by the way Alfred seemed to glow, having been invigorated by the dancing and the tête-à-tête of the evening. It was his natural habit, after all, to moderate between the feisty nobility, so often at each other’s throats, and Edward knew that he had been quite consumed in keeping the knowledge of the gathering mob at the gates far from the Queen’s ears for as long as possible.

But Edward could hardly think of mobs when his fingers tingled from the electric looks from across the dance floor and when Alfred’s cherubic skin was flushed with the same pink that adorned the cheeks of the ladies in the paintings around them.

“Oh, I don’t know, Lord Alfred,” he sighed, flicking his gaze back up to the paintings. The woman whose portrait he had been studying seemed to smile down upon him with mischievous encouragement and it sent a ray of startling courage through him in an instant.

There was no harm in putting sound to the noiseless words they had been exchanging all night.

His gaze rested upon the look of fading anticipation on Alfred’s face, excitement and hoping falling away with every passing moment, and Edward wanted nothing but to sweep the melancholy away and fill it with something else altogether. He quirked the smallest of smiles and tilted his head.

“Why aren’t you?”

**FEBRURARY 1848**

Edward woke with a head full of cotton.

He’d never been able to hold his liquor.

He dropped his head to the pillow and let his eyes slip shut again.

**AUGUST 1847**

The doctor had disappeared back to the second floor, presumably to do _something_, anything to help, and Edward was left alone at the foot of the stairs.

The house was quiet and heavy with the scent of death.

Edward stood with shaking hands, just barely staying balanced on his feet. He wanted to fall to his knees, to clutch at the banister for support, to call out for someone to come tell him what to do.

No one had prepared him for _this_. No one could have. There was nothing to say, nothing to do to help ease the hurt of _this_.

But he was selfish to think of himself when Florence was gone and their son was too.

Their son.

Edward felt sick in the depths of his stomach and his head pounded with the weight of it all, eyes burning and skin clammy and lip trembling with something unshed.

How had it come to this?

**MARCH 1848**

The ride to Amsterdam was long and difficult, delayed by roads muddy from the spring rain and a carriage heavy with the weight of its passengers, who were an odd bunch of foreigners lost without the railroad to guide them further and stiff locals laden with goods to trade and secrets to keep.

Edward sat in between another young traveler, who leaned rather heavily into Edward as he struggled not to doze off (though how he could fathom sleeping when every few feet they were stuck in yet another pit of soft earth Edward could not understand), and a stout and weathered woman who bore a finely wrapped package and fiddled with a loose thread on the hem of her jacket. His knees brushed awkwardly with the elderly pair across from him, who jabbered in fast French that he doubted even Alfred would understand.

He was not unpleasantly reminded of a similar trip so many ages ago, and yet so fresh in his mind. The smiles they had shared for those long and hot hours cooped in the ornate carriage, the way their legs had been pushed together under the guise of circumstance…

A heavy breath and a slight shake of his head brought Edward out of himself and back to the faintly vile smell of his fellow passengers and the way a tight and itching sense of being too confined for his own good was creeping over his skin. He ached to throw himself out of the carriage and run alongside it instead, ached to relish the feeling of brisk air and wide open spaces and freedom.

But he swallowed his discomfort and closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself meander through memories and distract himself with dreams of what had long since passed and what could have been.

**MARCH 1847**

_Edward had stayed late at the bank again, swamped in the heavy record books he’d been busying himself with organizing. Banking was not his area of expertise by any stretch of the world and he spent most of his days floundering in terminology his father had once tried to pound into his mind as a boy, tied up in the dusty backrooms while he stared longingly at the newspaper and wished for the airy halls of Parliament. _

_And then his shoulder would smart and cry out in pain when he moved too quickly, and he would sit down heavily and thank whatever being had nudged the bullet just to the side and saved his life. _

_Banking was not his passion, but life was good enough for now. _

_And oh what a life!_

_He smiled to himself as he left the ominous building behind, darting down the steps that swept out from its grand doors down to the street, delighting in the jolt of anticipation that flashed through him. _

_This is what he looked forward to. _

_The walk home was long enough to wash away the last traces of a long day spent with his nose buried in paper and ink, but not so long that the adrenaline of excitement faded. _

_He reached the front steps of his house in Soho and practically bounded up the stairs. Warm light spilled from the windows and he bypassed fumbling for the key in his pockets, going straight for the knocker. _

_Footsteps came to great him and as the door swung open he felt his breath catch in elation. It would be so good to be home, to sink into familiar arms and trade quiet kisses and soft laughs, and after hours of time spent alone with his mind, all Edward wanted was to share the thoughts that had run rampant in his mind all day. _

_He waited for the door to open enough for him to spring into the warm entry hall, and as he stood there, his eyes fell upon the object of his daydreams, ringed in soft gold light and looking up at him with sapphire eyes, and Edward held his breath as those lips quirked in a smile. _

_How he’d missed him, and they’d only said goodbye that morning. _

_How he’d longed for this for years, and now that he was allowed to delight in the wonders of a god who walked among men, he could think of little else. _

_But what was the shame in that? What was the shame in stepping inside and closing the door behind him and taking his face in his hands and pressing a kiss to lips so soft and brushing his fingers up into hair so smooth?_

_But as he pulled back to admire Alfred, his Alfred, and lose himself in familiar comfort and ask him the questions he was longing to know about how court had functioned and how his day had been and whether or not the Queen was going to go through with her newest fantastical idea for a charitable ball, he noticed that things were not quite right._

_Alfred’s hair seemed to be getting longer, his strong shoulders seemed to shrink beneath Edward’s hands, and his eyes faded into a paler reflection of that startling blue, and Edward felt a sense of horror overcome him. _

_It always went like this. _

_Alfred was not Alfred and Edward was not anyone at all, as he stumbled back from the woman his love was becoming and fell, tripping over nothing and tumbling back into a void so dark and bottomless that he feared he would fall forever, haunted by the silhouette of the person standing at the edge of the rabbit hole, someone Edward could not—dared not—name. _

_He fell and he fell and he fell and he landed, _and Edward was at last awake, heart pounding.

He was tangled in the sheets, covered in a sheen of sweat, and his panted into the pillow, trying to calm himself with the fluttering of the drapes and the sound of Florence’s steady breathing.

The nightmare had been plaguing him since Florence had told him, stuck on repeat in his mind as his heart betrayed him by thinking of the perfect life he had denied himself from even wanting, only to rip it away.

Edward pressed his face into the sheets and curled in onto himself, trying desperately not to cry.

**MARCH 1848**

After a few days of travel, Edward made it to Amsterdam and scrounged what little he could to buy a room in an inn at the edge of the city for the night, hoping to stay just long enough to find a job. Leaving his things in his room, Edward wandered down to the tavern below him, not really looking for a drink, but rather for a distraction. He sat by the window with _The Iliad_, looking out at the street and the crooked, looming houses there. The locals seemed to dance through the crowded alleys and roads, carrying their loads to-and-fro with a sort of tired familiarity that reminded Edward of his mother.

He ordered a drink.

The night lasted longer than he felt it should have, the burn of whiskey on the back of his throat igniting something within him that made Edward watch the others in the room cautiously and curiously, the intense need to share and touch and trade washing over him in a way entirely unfamiliar. His lust for Alfred had always been accompanied by something stronger than simple carnal desire, something reverent and nearly overwhelming in its majesty. This—this was something else. This was a craving for the presence of someone nameless and nearly faceless, someone to take from and to give to. Someone with lips he could pretend were another’s.

Edward, suddenly quite afraid of the desire thrumming beneath his skin, downed the rest of the whiskey and stood, rather shakily, to return to his room.

The stairs, narrow and winding as they were, proved a small challenge, and Edward cursed himself for always being the first to fall to the whims of drink. He found his room and shook his head as he opened the door in some attempt to clear the fuzz from behind his eyes.

He stood, shock still, and looked into the room in slight disbelief. His case, laid so carefully on the bed, was _gone_, and consequently, Edward’s spare clothes and the image he had of Florence and the baby and his favorite law book and his money.

He sat numbly on the edge of the bed and wondered if his Robin Hood plan was really such a bad idea.

Later that night, Edward lay beneath his scratchy blanket on the rigid bed, the distant roar of the bar below fading into silence compared the rush of blood in his ears. Now that what little he had left was gone, he had come to the sharp realization that he had made a horrible, horrible mistake. He had been giddy, drunk on the delights of fate, thankful that whatever being watched over him had finally granted him his wish. He had forgotten the death of his wife and child in favor of chasing a ghost across an endless tract of land, where there were a million nooks and crannies for a runaway lord and his new wife to hide. He had hoped blindly, trusted aimlessly, believed vaguely in the goodness of man and his own ability and the everlasting nature of love.

Was it truly even love? It had been years of flirting, teetering on the edge of something more, something dangerous and beautiful. And then they had fallen into the trap all men like them were bound for—swept up into a wave of desire and throbbing, pulsing love until they tumbled onto the rocky shore and found the truth. They were nothing in the face of everything, two schoolboys fumbling in the dark in search of an outlet for the pent up emotions building within, two insignificant pieces in an intricate game of chess, two quietly defiant figures hiding in the shadows of the night. And there Edward was acting as if he had every right to run after a man who clearly did not want to be found.

He buried his face in the stiff pillow and breathed in sharply, relishing the stab of pain he felt when his lungs found no air in the fabric.

He should have given up during that spell of hopelessness in Palermo, returned home while he still had the money to make the trip and enough shreds of his former dignity to sculpt some cover story and a new, respectable life. He should have forgotten Alfred and his beautiful eyes and his many woes.

And he still could not tell whether it was all just life or if he was rotting in the churchyard and this endless cat-and-mouse was his punishment. Punishment for loving, for touching an angel. He needed reassurance of either truth, for the not knowing was driving him to madness—he knew it.

He was afraid, so terribly afraid. It bit into him like the bullet had, the sensation of flesh tearing and bone splintering and blood gushing extending from his scar down into his fingertips until he was sure he was truly falling to pieces.

And still he did not want to stop. He couldn’t stop, not now, not when he could taste it on the tip of his tongue. Not when there was no way to go back. He knew he was close, and he needed to find Alfred, to know.

**JANUARY 1846**

Something nameless thrummed in Edward’s temples, and he _hated_ it. It was hot and furious and terribly, terribly sad. It tore through his mind and left little but confused scraps of logic behind it, intermixed with raw, uncut emotion.

How could he have misjudged it all so? How could he have thought that he was worthy to dance with a god? How could he have misplaced his heart and his head all in one go?

Drenched in self-hatred and sick with the remnants of the champagne Alfred had ordered them, Edward turned his collar to the wind and hurried away from Ciro’s, tears budding in his eyes.

**MARCH 1848**

Edward managed to eke some sympathy from the owner of the hotel, who admitted his faulty locks were probably at fault for the loss of everything Edward still owned, and his kindly wife helped Edward piece together some clothes and pressed a package of gold jewelry into his hands. _“Sell,”_ she said, accent thick but intentions clear. Edward whispered his thanks, hoping that she would understand him despite the quiver of unshed tears that tainted his voice. She disappeared into their kitchen for a moment, holding out a strict finger that told him to stay put as she bustled out of sight, and Edward waited. He caught sight of himself in the mirror over the mantle, looking more continental than he had ever really intended to. He nearly laughed at the man who stood there, wondering if he knew how ridiculous he was.

The woman returned with what appeared to be a substantial package of food and Edward nearly turned her down, considering he was already toting her son’s old clothes and what was probably a fair few family heirlooms. Taking her food seemed too much, but she darted through his protests and somehow shoved the food into his bag (salvaged from the pile of forgotten belongings they apparently kept in the kitchen of the inn).

Edward was pushed out the door with a kiss on the cheek and firm farewell, and soon enough he was stumbling out from this waystation towards the city.

He stood still for a moment, still numb from the night before, and wondered what in the world he was supposed to do now.

**AUGUST 1845**

He woke to the sensation of gentle fingers running along his arm, and as he blinked back to the light, he felt Alfred’s smile bathe him in warmth that was yet unmatched by the morning sun, nor would it ever be.

He closed his eyes again and buried into the sheets and blankets and Alfred.

**MARCH 1848**

He sold the jewelry, feeling rather horrible as he did so, but now his pockets were heavy and he felt a little less like he was marching into battle without a weapon or shred of armor.

Edward, content with wandering the streets and riverbanks for hours, drank in Amsterdam until his mind was clouded with fantasy and art and he could hardly bring himself to think of anything but his next step.

Evening came eventually and he found a narrow inn shoved haphazardly between an old theatre and a block of crooked apartments, painted in charmingly vibrant colors and embellished in smooth white marble. He bought a room for the night, planning to recollect his thoughts and sleep away some of the leftover feeling of illness from his night of distress. He still felt as though he was choking on tears, clinging to the sticky feeling of sadness. He was hollow, drained of all emotion, and he could only hope that a night of rest might return some of his life to him.

Part of him couldn’t help but think he hoped in vain.

He waited for the boy at the front of the hotel to fetch him the key, and cast his eyes around the room, drinking in the soft golden light and the dusty red walls, the crackling of the fire and the distant sound of chatter from the kitchen workers reminding Edward strangely of the palace in London. There was the same feeling of subtle grandeur that used to delight him, comforting in the way of the tight back hallways and the music room after dark. Edward smiled as he caught sight of the old piano in the corner, noticing the book of Chopin left atop it by some passerby tempted by the idea of dancing their fingers across the keys.

Edward did like it here, but he could hardly bring himself to appreciate it in the way he knew he would have, had things been different.

He breathed out a long sigh and leaned against the counter, closing his eyes for a moment and running his hands over his face. He had done practically nothing all day and he was _exhausted_.

And there was something odd about this little hotel in the city. It didn’t quite feel real.

**FEBRURARY 1844**

_All this discomfort over Chopin_, Edward thought, awkwardly pouring brandy for Alfred, who sat with the knowing smile they had shared hidden behind his hand as he pretended to listen to Miss Coke.

But they had been alone, and it had been perfection itself. Alone in the light of the fire, relaxed in their chairs and eyeing each other with unsung understanding, Edward had felt as though he had been lit anew with life and flame, and all he could think about was _him_.

He smiled to himself as he put the stopped back into the fine glass bottle, relishing in the feeling of eyes running over his form, and wondered if he could snag a moment with Alfred before the night was out.

**MARCH 1848**

The boy ran out, looking rather flushed and harried, to inform Edward that the key had been misplaced and offered him a seat by the fire and a glass of brandy while he waited, which Edward waved away with an accommodating smile. He would stand and bathe himself in the nostalgia of the inn, drinking in the semblance of peace it gave him, as if his mind had recognized it as a friendly reminder of a world much lighter than the one he lived in now.

This place hardly seemed solid, but rather a curious place between memory and truth, and Edward wondered what he might find hidden within its walls.

**AUGUST 1846**

The loch shimmered, mirror-like in the setting sun, and the distant chirp of birds and the laughter of the servants, tucked away in the woods, faded into the beat of Edward’s heart as Alfred approached. Had he glanced down into the shallow waters, he would have seen nothing but a pair of trespassers in the realm of love, stepping awkwardly into a place where they were unwelcome.

And had he looked, he would not have cared, for Alfred was looking up at him with a startling plainness of invitation, and Edward could not breathe.

**MARCH 1848**

Edward waited for some time, tapping his fingers against the edge of the counter in time to the clock on the wall, which crept past five o’clock with little fanfare.

He heard doors opening somewhere within the confines of the inn, heard the tick of the clock and the voice of the counter boy, still searching for the key. The scent of something warm and homey flowed from the kitchen and, despite the hardy food the innkeeper’s wife had given him, Edward’s mouth watered at the thought of a warm supper. He closed his eyes again and pretended he was at the palace again, waiting for someone else while the beehive of staff bustled around beneath his feet.

Yes, he did like it here, though he was too tired to like much at all.

And yet there was something odd about the hotel, the air hung heavy with unnamed anticipation, and it left Edward on edge. It was as if he were dancing on the point of a knife, the careful balance he had so long maintained threatened by this inexplicable sense of dread.

Edward sighed again. It was probably nothing.

**JULY 1841**

Edward stood just behind Peel as the Prime Minister traded biting words with the Queen, trying to keep a straight face while Peel fumbled over his responses to the Queen’s sharp tongue. He had stopped taking notes, figuring Peel would want to immediately forget about the incident instead of reliving it through a detailed transcript, and was distracting himself yet again with the artwork until the faint strains of a voice like honey drifted down the hall.

A voice he’d recognize anywhere.

Lord Alfred was a newfound friend, and though they were not yet close enough to do much but exchange words in the halls of the palace and at the side of the ballroom, Edward had a feeling that they would one day be friends of the highest caliber, knit as tightly as he and Juliet had once been. And oh how he longed to know Lord Alfred most intimately—he seemed to be made from wit and ink and gold, and Edward wanted to dive into his cool depths to find the spring from which the stardust from which he was sculpted sprung.

He smiled to himself and listened as the voice passed, hoping he would manage to run into Lord Alfred on the way back to the House.

**MARCH 1848**

A snatch of English, muffled by a few walls and the oriental carpets that ran across the floors, caught Edward’s attention, and he shot up from the slouch he had fallen into, alert. And, oddly enough, the voice seemed to spark Edward’s memory, like a dying ember stoked again by an unassuming poker.

Could it be?

**SEPTEMBER 1846**

Knowing smiles passed between them as smoothly as kisses, and when Edward hurried by him in the halls, he would brush their knuckles accidentally, only to feel the shivering spark that Alfred lit within him.

It was a selfish need, but he did not care.

**MARCH 1848**

It couldn’t be. Not now, not here, not in this place where time seemed to envelop itself and leave Edward wandering, lost, in its ghostly fabric.

**NOVEMBER 1845**

Edward dreamed of a warm body and friendly eyes and hands that cupped his cheeks to guide him into a kiss.

He dreamed of flushed skin and light quips and deep conversations about nothing and everything all at once.

He dreamed of dreams, dreams that could not be.

**MARCH 1848**

And yet the door to the back rooms swung open and a familiar figure, a small woman dressed in green, came through the door, talking over her shoulder to an unseen companion, and Edward could hardly breathe.

**DECEMBER 1845**

Alfred was different, somehow. His eyes did not quite meet Edward’s when he commented on the beauty of the city covered in snow. His smile came slowly and Edward caught him looking at Edward with a sort of melancholy emptiness, as if he had come to a horrible decision.

Edward prickled beneath his gaze and prayed that he was seeing things that weren’t real.

**MARCH 1848**

What would he say? What would he do if he was right? What if he was wrong?

**JANUARY 1846**

His mouth was moving and words were forming and Edward could not comprehend them, for all he heard was _not you, not now, not for me. _He wasn’t enough; he wasn’t important to Alfred after all.

He wasn’t anything.

The idea made him sick.

**MARCH 1848**

And there he was, the same as ever.

**FEBRUARY 1846**

Edward felt so very, _very_ cold. It was as if fingers of ice had gripped his heart and every drop of blood that trickled through his veins was covered in a sheen of frost, and he was slowly turning into a fragile sculpture, clear and sparkling for all to see and look through.

How many of his secrets had been laid bare by his own hand, which moved in a realm beyond his control, as if a heavy curtain had dropped between his mind and his matter? Only God knew what he had said, what he had did. Had he called out for Alfred, cried for him in the throes of fever and pain? Had he damned them both with one fell swoop? Was that what had made him leave?

From where he sat in the chair by the window of his hospital room, Edward could see out over the street below, and every glimpse of gold sent a jolt of unbidden hope into his breast. Perhaps he had come home. Perhaps he was going to burst in at any moment and wrap Edward in his arms and press kisses to his lips and the heavy bandages that wrapped his shoulder and tell him everything was to be alright.

But Alfred did not come.

He was gone now, gone across the stretch of cold and salty water that separated Edward from the world, and with every passing hour, every passing day that he did not break through Edward’s dusty, cloudy world with his shimmering eyes and steady voice, he slipped farther from Edward’s grasp.

Where had he gone? _Why_ had he gone?

Edward could not fathom the things that had compelled him to leave, until he remembered Ciro’s and the words that had pierced his skin like bullets far more destructive than the one that sat wrapped in pristine cloth on the side table. He did not want to believe that Alfred had meant those things, but now…

Now he was gone. He had left Edward alone and brokenhearted, flying away with a pretty young thing under his wing, and Edward could not be sure if he breathed at all or if this odd middle place between life and death was simply his punishment for having dared to tempt himself with earthly wonders.

Edward found that he had bit rather harshly into the flesh of his hand, leaving a smarting patch of red in the meat of his thumb, and he inspected the mark with distant indifference. It had hurt, so perhaps he did live.

And if so, what good was it to sit in a hospital room in a city of lost hope where the air was more smoke than anything else? What good was it to dream of the past when it could be the future? He did not care if it was real or not, because it was real enough to _him_.

And all he needed was for Alfred to be real again, too.

He would find him one day.

He must.

**MARCH 1848**

Alfred stood, halfway bathed in golden lamplight, eyes wide and stuck with unfathomable shock, as if he could not tell whether his mind was betraying him or if Edward was truly standing there.

“Edward?” he said, a tremble at the edge of his voice. Miss Coke froze at the word, turned, and inhaled sharply, darting a hand out to grip Alfred’s shoulder.

“Hello, Lord Alfred,” he whispered, unsure if he was making sound at all.

And before he was quite certain of what was happening, Alfred had pulled him into an embrace more intimate than even their kiss beside the loch, their dip in that French pool, their suggestive conversations over Edward’s tinderbox, and the thousands of heady glances and smiles and lingering brushes of skin that had haunted them throughout the years.

Alfred was burying his head into Edward’s shoulder (his uninjured one, thank God) and Miss Coke (Lady Paget? Oh, he hoped not!) was laughing gleefully into her palms and Edward was breathing in the feel of him, so achingly familiar.

A deep feeling of relief settled within his bones, for he was home, even though he was a million miles from London.

That night, curled together on a divan, Alfred’s head pillowed on Edward’s chest, they talked. Miss Coke assured them both she could handle the comings and goings downstairs, leaving them to the peace of the pair’s rooms.

Alfred had offered champagne, but his hands had been shaking and Edward had to pour for them, which only made Alfred feel he had to compensate for his nerves by being exceedingly host-like, igniting a chain reaction that ended in their compromising and peaceful position in Alfred’s parlor.

Edward could hardly believe he was there – it had all happened so fast, and now he was holding the ever-elusive Alfred in his arms, surrounded by the scent of his favorite cigars, skin burning where Alfred traced patterns over the back of his hand. They were down to their shirt sleeves, Edward’s hair falling into its natural curl after a long day of travel. Alfred had murmured something about it as they hung onto each other there in the hall, and Edward hoped it had been praise of some form, for after a childhood spent regaling them back into a neat swoop, he was rather self-conscious.

“What ever happened to us?” Alfred started, sounding utterly defeated and confused.

“What ever happened to _you_, more like. Why in the world are you running a hotel in Amsterdam?”

“Why in the world are you alive all of a sudden?” Alfred huffed.

The old fear that Edward was stuck in some postmortem dream world crept up his spine. “When was I ever dead?”

“Good God, we really have much to discuss,” Alfred said, voice trembling again. “The Duchess of Buccleuch told me you had been killed by an assassin aiming for Peel.”

A horrible feeling of dreadful understanding sank upon him then, as if the last sour pieces of a gruesome puzzle had fallen into place. “The _Duchess of Buccleuch_ told you I was dead? I was only shot, but I healed fairly quickly.”

“That godforsaken woman!” Alfred hissed. “I could not bear to attend your funeral, so I asked dear Wilhelmina to pretend to elope with me so I could run off to the continent and hide away from everything.”

Edward held his breath. “So she is still Miss Coke?”

“Yes, of course,” Alfred said. “Did you really think I could ever bring myself to love another?”

“Marriage does not mean love,” Edward sighed, carding his fingers through Alfred’s soft hair.

Silence for a moment, the air tense in an echo of Alfred’s own body, which froze quite suddenly. “Do you have experience in that realm?”

“Some,” he said, sounding quite small, even to himself.

“So, Florence, your fiancé…”

“My wife. Dead now, and our son with her, on the same night. I left to look for you after that.”

Alfred did not say a thing, for there was really nothing to say.

“I’m afraid I did not grieve them as I should have,” Edward breathed, fragile and distant. “I did not love her as I should have, and I… did not know him at all.”

“It is no fault of yours that you did not love her.”

“Perhaps,” Edward said with the bitterest of laughs.

“But now you are here,” said Alfred, “and you can grieve them in peace. And we can stop grieving you.”

“How odd that I have thought you as good as dead and that you thought be actually so!” Edward whispered, pressing his lips to the crown of Alfred’s head and furrowing his brow.

“Odd indeed,” Alfred sighed, “and things will certainly continue to get odder.”

“But we have each other now,” Edward said with an edge of cautiousness, as though he was not quite sure if Alfred would agree.

Alfred smiled, arms wrapping tightly around his waist. “Yes, we do.”

“And that is enough, right?” Edward asked needlessly, because it was.

He buried his nose in golden hair and held Alfred tight, every dream that had ever haunted him coming together into reality for a wonderful moment where life seemed to return to him in a gasping, heaving breath. It was real, and Edward was not dead, nor asleep, nor alone.

He held an angel once again and he bathed in the warmth of success, and swam in the light of love.

**Author's Note:**

> well you've survived my brain vomit. if you liked it, let me know, and if you didn't, let me know too! criticism is my jam. 
> 
> i may be ace but i'm a hoe for comments <3


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